Forfeit
by C'est Fini
Summary: Just an idea that occurred to me, written on a whim. One-shot, written post RE-5. Excuse the rather queer descriptions, the reason behind the odd appearance of the mansion, etc will be revealed at the end.


The mansion stood atop a lonely hill, its foreboding profile casting a massive shadow into the valley below. Standing in the shade of a particularly leafy tree, Albert Wesker lifted his head and surveyed his surroundings, directing his attention to said mansion, built almost entirely out of huge blocks of onyx, dark as the night. The sky was darkening with grey clouds, and faint claps of thunder were an indication that a storm was well underway. Not wanting to waste a moment more standing in the outdoors, he made quick work of the ascent up the cliff, dashing across the green slope and into the grounds of the mansion. A wrought-iron door stood shut against him - there was no doorbell and no knocker, so he was left with the option of knocking the door with his gloved hands.

He rapped on the door with his knuckles and wondered how anyone within the large residence would be able to hear him. To his surprise, the door was answered mere seconds later. A distinguished-looking elderly gentleman peered out at him with all the snobbery of an aristocrat, appearing to be the butler of the house and clearly not about to invite Wesker in if he had no business with his masters.

"I'm here to see her." _'Her' _was the magic word.

The butler remained silent, but held the door open wider this time so Wesker could make his way in. Wesker was not at all a patient man and could have, by all means, shoved his hand through the man's chest and plucked out his heart before tossing the corpse into the valley, then muscling his way in without so much as a by-your-leave, but he knew better than to offend the lady of the house, his would-be host, especially when he was now in a position of weakness.

The reticent butler led him out of the parlour and down a long hallway lined with windows, completely dark save for the occasional flashes of lightning that streaked across the sky and illuminated the room in brief moments. Wesker had no appreciation for the old paintings that sporadically decorated the walls, his mind focussed instead on his imminent meeting. The butler's heavy tread and Wesker's cautious, light steps worked in tandem down the carpeted corridor until the butler stopped short in front of a heavy oak door. The butler rapped sharply on the door, and without waiting for a response, held the door open for Wesker and nodded for him to make his entrance into what Wesker made out to be a hall or ballroom of some sort.

The scene before him was a queer one. She was known to be a recluse, and an eccentric one at that, but Wesker had never expected perversion. The hall's ceilings were obviously tall, but led into darkness, which meant he couldn't ascertain the exact height of the room. Two rows of men stood at either side of the room, identical in their state of undress - all were completely naked and only wore thick satin or leather bands around their necks. A few of the men appeared to be acting as candelabra, gripping long black candles in both hands, barely flinching at the feel of hot wax dripping steadily onto bare flesh. The lady of the house had very strange preferences, indeed.

At the head of the room was a large marble chair that seemed more of a throne anything else. The throne held a man whom Wesker did not know, his head bowed so that his features were hidden in shadow. In his lap, a woman lounged carelessly, her black-clad body lithe, arms and legs hanging over the arm-rests of the chair. Her raven-black hair was so long it trailed onto the floor and lay in thick coils at the foot of the chair, appearing to tangle with the man's legs and feet. She turned her head to face Wesker upon his entrance, eyes hidden by sunglasses reflective enough to rival the pair on his face. There was no expression of surprise. Clearly, she had been expecting him.

"Ah. Like a moth to a flame." She purred, dark, rich voice echoing in the large chamber. Pulling her legs back from the edge of the 'throne', she settled herself into a seated position atop the man's lap. The man behind her lifted his head at her movement, mouth pulling into a grimace. A black blindfold hid his eyes from view, and now that she'd retracted her legs from the arm-rests, Wesker saw that the man beneath her had been shackled to the throne.

"You've heard?" Wesker asked, without preamble.

"News travels fast. Snippets of information here and there, but no more." She shrugged nonchalantly, not very concerned with news of Wesker's doings... or wrong-doings.

"Then you will know what I want."

"No, as a matter of fact, I don't. Egotistical bastards are predictable, but cunning egotistical bastards are another kind, yes?" She said, a sly smile upon her face as she tilted her head in response to Wesker's statement.

Ignoring the insult, Wesker continued, moving on to the real purpose behind his visit to this godforsaken part of the world.

"News that I am still alive has gotten out. The BSAA have made me a priority for capture. I will require protection until I am able to regain my strength, now that both the Prototype virus and Uroboros have proved to be complete failures." His voice was bitter, memories of the incidence at Kijuju colouring his tone with disappointment and hatred.

"Ah. And you seem to think I am... worthy... of providing you with such protection."

"You are as I am - that is what I have heard. Beyond the confines of the human mind and body."

"Mmmm." An answer, a non-answer. A hint of amusement flashed across the woman's features, but was quickly smoothed away into a bland, business-like expression. Obviously, some sort of payment was expected. However, Wesker knew that money was not a currency that would be accepted in this trade.

"You... collect." Wesker made a show of looking down the two long rows of men standing at the sides of the room. All the males were obviously in good health and attractive, though probably not trapped within this infernal mansion by choice. Wesker wondered how these specimens had been procured - perhaps this was more a sex house than a true area of residence?

"That I do," she agreed, interrupting his musings. A brief smirk slanted her mouth. "And your point is...?"

"I am making you an offer. You give me your protection for as long as I require it, and I will serve you... well."

The woman steepled her fingers, lips pursed in consideration, eyes still hidden behind the reflective sunglasses. Wesker saw himself in the reflective surface and hated how he, himself, could see the desperation that had made its way across his face despite the measure of control within his voice that he'd retained when speaking to her.

"My... 'collecting case', as you would put it, is always open. However, I am not in need of your servitude. You will find that I am rather... discerning and... refined in my tastes." Yet another insult. Hadn't he already established that he was not human, that he was, in fact, above the average human creature?

"As I have mentioned, I am not human. Unlike the rest of your miserable slaves here." Wesker grit out, his voice taking on a sharp edge of anger, desperation showing through the emotionless mask of his face. There was a soft rattle of metal as the man beneath her stirred, seemingly in indignance at Wesker's derogatory words. The woman chuckled, Wesker's anger of no consequence to her whatsoever.

"Ah... Seeing as how you are so eager to join the ranks of my... 'miserable slaves'." Her tone was honeyed, containing a mere hint of devilry that Wesker couldn't quite comprehend.

"You'll need someone to introduce you to our way of life, hmm? Now..." She edged forward, nearly off the man's lap, and barked out a single name.

"Kist!"

The order was directed to the furthest corner of the hall, an area draped and disguised by shadows. The feeble, flickering lights from the human candelabras failed to illuminate the hall fully, and Wesker had to squint in the direction she was shouting at to see a man emergement from concealment by the darkness. The man shuffled slowly to the middle of the hall and stood beside Wesker, silently awaiting orders.

"Kist here has learned his lesson well... Haven't you, Kist?"

The man Wesker assumed was Kist nodded his head furiously, and Wesker was surprised to see the man's eyes immediately fill with tears. It couldn't be more obvious that she had some power over the man standing beside him. As she moved upon her throne again, Kist flinched and began to tremble slightly. Wesker's eyes flitted across the man's bare chest and he noticed a neat row of stitches graced the length of the male's neck. She appeared to have noted the unvoiced question.

"Kist, the darling, was a singer. Wonderfully talented, I must admit... and uncontrollably arrogant." Yet another sadistic smirk flitted across her features.

Understanding dawned in Wesker's mind, removing any doubt at all that this woman did indeed have her own perversions and was perhaps more than a tad insane.

"I am assuming you surgically removed his larynx. Or at the very least, part of it."

"Right-o. I must amend my earlier statement, intelligent egotistical bastard that you are." She clapped her hands together lightly, as if applauding Wesker's guesswork, the hollow sounds reeking of insincerity.

"Would you like to go the same way, sweetheart?" Her question was now directed to Wesker himself.

The question was also the reply that Wesker had so desired. It seemed that she had formally accepted the terms of trade. Wesker nearly breathed out a sigh of relief. Very well, then. He would keep up his side of his bargain for as long as it took to restore himself to his former glory. To succumb to the powers of the strongest virus he would engineer, yet, and under the protection of the unquestionably powerful woman in front of him, too.

"No... mistress." He went down on both knees, bowing his head, offering her his complete submission. She chuckled, clearly approving of his gesture.

"Oh, thefun I'll have with you, beloved."

Her endearments were nearly as odd as his preference for the term 'dear-heart'. She slid down from the throne easily, long hair trailing out behind her, a seemingly endless rope of black that slowly unwound itself from the thick coils that rested at the foot of the throne. She tossed her sunglasses aside and made her way up to him. Her cold hands gripped Wesker's face and tilted his head back.

It was then that Wesker experienced an unprecedented, unfamiliar sensation of fear. He was not staring into the red eyes of an Infected, as he'd been expecting, but irises that were bleached an unholy white. The owner of those infernal eyes grinned at him, hunger clear on her features. Her voice harshly grated out a promise of punishment. _Dear God._

"Welcome to hell, Albert Wesker."


End file.
